


Election Night

by Chastened, pockettreatpete



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: First Time, Longest Way Round 'verse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22415320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chastened/pseuds/Chastened, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pockettreatpete/pseuds/pockettreatpete
Summary: Ambitious, calculating Mayor Pete Buttigieg never thought he could enjoy love and professional success simultaneously. But that all changes when he finds an equally ambitious boyfriend ready to calculate by his side.(Bonus content, of a sort, from the Longest Way Round AU.)
Relationships: Chasten Buttigieg/Pete Buttigieg
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Longest Way Round](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20633912) by [Chastened](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chastened/pseuds/Chastened). 



> As Chastened prepared to write chapter 18 of Longest Way Round, we spent a lot of time in the DMs discussing what the early days of the LWR boys' relationship might have looked like, trading ideas back and forth. One day, over Christmas, Pocket gifted Chastened with a piece of porn: The first time as she imagined it, written in Pete's POV. A few days later Chastened wrote the same encounter from Chasten's perspective. These pieces, and the thousands of words of other early relationship content that we've written over the last month, were never meant to make it into the story itself, but we're quite happy with the porn, and so the idea of putting the two together in one story and posting it as... bonus content, if you will, for LWR fans, was born. Um. Hope you enjoy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chastened, my darling. Thank you so much for building this universe and allowing me to have a part in it. I can only hope I do your characters justice and make you proud. With mah porn. "I love you bro. Have this dirty fucking." –Pocket

**September 25, 2015 - South Bend, Indiana**

Later, Pete wouldn’t remember much from the fourth date at all, except a slowly unfolding sense of unease in his chest, which crystallized into occasional bursts of low-grade panic over the course of the evening. 

Chasten had made no move towards coming inside after the first few dates, walking Pete to the door and kissing him chastely, smiling “good night” before walking back to the curb. Pete was surprised to realize, after the third date, that watching Chasten get in the car he wasn’t sure if he was more relieved or disappointed.

He had no illusions, though. By the fourth date Chasten would surely be expecting _something_. Right? 

They’d had the conversation about Chasten’s exes on the second date. Pete had never felt so savagely inadequate in his life as when he quietly counted along with each name Chasten dragged up from his history. On the flip side he’d never felt so desperately protective, scaring himself with the anger that flashed hotly through his chest, as when Chasten quietly recounted the barest details of how some of them had treated him. Chasten hadn’t asked about Pete’s own history, leaving it up to him what he wanted to say. Which, for the moment, was absolutely nothing, mostly because there wasn’t much to say. He’d tell Chasten about Streeling, someday, he supposed.

The fourth date had to be it. A man (a _young_ man, his mind unhelpfully provided) like Chasten had needs, and even though Pete couldn’t possibly have any hope of being what Chasten needed he knew he had to try. If he didn’t, odds were one of these days he’d kiss Chasten goodbye on the porch and it would be _goodbye._

“Why don’t you come inside for some coffee,” Pete mumbled against Chasten’s lips at the end of the night, rushing to get it all out before he lost his nerve. 

Chasten smiled, brushing his fingertips against Pete’s cheek. 

“Okay.” 

Pete hesitated in the hallway for a moment, unsure if he was supposed to go through the motions of actually making coffee, but Chasten took his hand and pulled him into the living room and down to the couch with him. He kissed chastely, fingertips circling gently on Pete’s shoulders. Pete waited, kept waiting, for him to move in closer and slide his hands further down Pete’s body, do what he wanted with him. Nothing seemed to ever happen, except Chasten’s incredibly soft lips moving languidly against Pete’s own. Finally Pete took a desperate breath. He reached out blindly to put his hand on Chasten’s crotch. A moment later Chasten broke the kiss, lifting Pete’s hand off himself and taking it in his own. The icy deflation, where he had intended escalation, made Pete suck in a quick breath, letting his head droop forward to hide his face. 

“Peter.” 

Pete didn’t open his eyes, his humiliation a living breathing thing in his chest.

“ _Peter_.” 

Chasten’s other hand left his shoulder. His fingers came up to lift Pete’s chin. 

“Please look at me, Peter.” 

He opened his eyes reluctantly, and met Chasten’s gaze. 

“Do you really want this right now?”

He wanted to answer in the affirmative, or better yet, scoff and ask why Chasten would ask that, but somehow his voice wouldn’t bend around the words. He sat mutely, quietly desperate and unable to express it.

“I think,” Chasten said, his endlessly gentle tone undoing Peter, “we need to talk a little bit.” 

Pete took a breath. He should say something, anything, but his cheeks were burning and simply meeting Chasten’s eyes instead of looking away took every ounce of determination he had. He waited.

“Look, there’s no delicate way to ask this,” Chasten said, suddenly rueful. “But I’ve been getting the distinct impression that you’re…” He trailed off, glancing to the side, then found a second wind: “Asexual, or somewhere on the ace spectrum.”

He supposed he wasn’t surprised that Chasten had him dead to rights, because Chasten had treated him like an open book from the first time they met. Pete had fucking loved it, loved that someone got him so completely, without having to be taught or explained to. He couldn’t in fairness be upset about it now. He couldn’t. 

“I think I am,” he pressed out between mortified lips, and Chasten nodded. 

He was still gently holding Pete’s hand. He was still smiling, still looking softly understanding. 

“So. Did you really want to have sex with me right now?”

“I– I mean, I didn’t–” He blew a frustrated breath. For a man so celebrated for his way with words none of them would come to his aid at the moment. 

“Peter,” Chasten said, suddenly very close to Pete’s face, his periwinkle eyes more intense know, pinning Pete under the force. “Don’t ever force yourself to do something you don’t want to because you think it’s what I want. There’s nothing wrong with you, you’re just wired the way you are and that’s okay.” 

Pete felt dizzy. Relief flooded his whole system, soothing the burn of his humiliation, numbing his acute sense of inadequacy. He took a few breaths, tried to collect his thoughts. He was suddenly disappointed in himself. Why, why, why had he doubted this man who had never once yet failed to give him exactly what he needed?

“I’m not– I’m not completely asexual,” he offered. “I think.” A pause. “I know.”

“Okay.” 

Chasten smiled. He sat back against the cushions, and the ease in the set of his shoulders made Pete want to kiss him again. Something pricked in the back of his mind, and he realized maybe now was the time to ask it. He sat back and looked out into the room. 

“When we researched you, Mike found a Grindr profile.” 

He glanced nervously over to see Chasten blinking, then narrowing his eyes.

“Yeah?” 

“Do you use it a lot?” 

“Not since I met you. Well, since I met Mike, I guess.” 

Peter didn’t miss the sharp edge in Chasten’s voice, and he knew he should back off, but he was in it now. Might as well push through.

“Sex is important to you,” he said, willing Chasten to understand. 

“It is,” Chasten replied slowly. “But it’s not the be-all and end-all. There are other more important components to a relationship. Partnership.”

Pete could hear the seconds ticking away on the wall clock. He wasn’t sure he should say what he wanted to, if it was safe. 

“I’m afraid I won’t be enough for you,” he said finally, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, staring across the room, exhaling all the fear in his soul along with the words. 

He flinched when Chasten rested his hand between his shoulder blades, and was immediately overcome with humiliation at his skittishness. 

“You will be,” Chasten said. 

The words seemed to charge the air around him. It sounded like an oath. 

Pete licked his lips. “Would you… Would you stay? Tonight? Just. Stay?” 

The hand stroked slowly downward, smoothing across the wrinkles in his shirt. It stopped at the small of his back, a warm, soothing presence.

“I’d love to.”

*

**November 4, 2015 - South Bend, Indiana**

He collapsed on the couch, and watched through narrow eyes as Chasten hung the car keys and his coat. It was late, and he had the morning shows in less than six hours, but he needed a minute to collect himself. He reached out a hand, and Chasten took it as he sat down next to him.

Pete found himself mesmerized by this man, who had talked strategy and canvassed with him for weeks, met and immediately charmed labor, neighborhood leaders, fathers of the city. Who had navigated the Westside Democratic Club like a champion that night. Who had shook hands and made jokes, but steadily – demurely – deflected attention from himself and towards the man of the hour. Towards Pete. 

“Thank you,” Pete said, desperate to convey so much more but utterly unable to. “For tonight.”

Chasten smiled brilliantly and waved his hand. “Oh, that was nothing.”

Pete frowned, and sat up straighter. “No, it wasn’t. You were perfect tonight. I was just trying to keep up. Everyone was charmed by you, kept asking about you. You were _perfect_ tonight.”

Chasten swallowed audibly. “Thank you, Peter.” He was still smiling but his voice shook just the tiniest bit and it made Pete feel like he was melting. 

He was overwhelmed by the urge to be close, and pulled him into a hug. Chasten smelled like sweat and beer and _victory_ and Pete held on tighter, molding his body against Chasten’s. He indulged himself, breathing in and letting Chasten’s presence consume all his senses. He heard Chasten’s breath catch, felt him discreetly angle himself away the way he did when he was trying not to embarrass Pete. Something sparked through him, electrified him. 

“Take me to bed,” he whispered against Chasten’s neck, momentarily brave but immediately mortified by his own words.

In response, Chasten pressed a kiss against the inch of skin under Pete’s right ear. Through his gasp he almost missed the murmured “are you sure?”. When he came to, nerve endings buzzing and sparking, Chasten was smiling at him, threading his fingers through Peter’s hair. 

“I’m sure,” he said once he trusted his voice again. 

The bedroom was dark and cool. It suited Pete just fine because he felt fevered, skin overheated against Chasten’s touch. He wasn’t sure where his shirt went, but then Chasten found that spot on his neck again and Pete’s knees gave out. Chasten caught him, laughing softly and sitting down on the bed, fitting Pete between his spread legs, his back against Chasten’s chest. 

A whine caught in his throat when Chasten gently scraped teeth against his neck. Goosebumps followed the trail of his fingers, just the right side of tickling. Chasten said something, but he didn’t have sufficient presence of mind to process it. (Later, he’d realize Chasten said “you’re safe now”, and his heart would clench with the sure knowledge that it was true.)

He was delirious, drunk on the feeling of warm breath and soft lips against his neck. He shivered under Chasten’s fingers. His limbs arched into the gentle touches, and lust was pooling hotly low in his belly. Time seemed to stretch and contract in rhythm with Chasten’s touches, and Pete had no idea how long really passed as Chasten caressed him sweetly, made him gasp for breath, ever more desperately. 

“I need—“ he whimpered, finally, but found he had no words for what it was he needed, even as his addled and impaired brain searched frantically. 

“What do you need, Peter? Tell me.” 

Chasten’s voice was smooth like caramel, teasing hotly in his ear. 

“Take me,” he said helplessly at last. It felt like an echo.

The fingers tracing his chest stuttered briefly. “Are you sure?”

“No,” he gasped, “but do it anyway.” 

The fingers paused, then abandoned him completely, and he quelled the disappointed moan threatening to escape. The warmth against his back retreated slowly, letting him fall back on the mattress. His eyes hadn’t quite gotten used to the darkness yet, so he could just barely make out the shape of Chasten as he moved around the room. He breathed into the shadows, tentatively allowing himself to feel the force of his desire, his heavy breath and galloping heartbeat, his blood pounding like rocket fuel through his veins, the way his erection was uncomfortably constrained by his clothes. He wondered loosely how long he’d been waiting and if there was some non-pathetic way to exhort Chasten to come back. 

Then, finally, hands started working on his belt and his eyes fell closed. He reached out weakly to help divest himself of his clothes but he had the distinct sense he wasn’t being very helpful. He shivered against the cool air of his bedroom, then felt Chasten’s warmth against himself. Soft lips pressed kisses against his chest, his belly, his wrists, then down his thighs and calves. He trembled at the brief touch of lips on first one ankle, then the other, before the kisses started moving further up. 

When wet heat enveloped him he must have groaned, but he honestly wasn’t sure because he didn’t have room in his sensory apparatus for anything but the feeling of Chasten’s mouth on his dick, intense and overwhelming. His body moved of its own accord even though he was, distantly and vaguely, aware that it was uncouth to thrust into someone’s mouth without invitation. Chasten’s hands landed firmly on his hips and held him steady, a futile exhortation to get himself under control. Pete surrendered feebly to the sensations, let them wash him away, let Chasten hold him and direct him. 

When Chasten slid one hand lower to touch his opening, he was too far gone to think about it too much, spreading his legs to give easier access. He tensed against the intrusion but relaxed with a groan when Chasten crooked his finger just so, setting off a violent brushfire running through his body. He knew he was moaning, gasping, writhing, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, much less be self-conscious about it, as Chasten slowly worked him open with his fingers. 

He whimpered when the fingers finally withdrew and he was suddenly and devastatingly empty, but careful hands maneuvered him onto his side, and then Chasten stretched out behind him.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, lifting Pete’s leg to rest over his own, his fingers playing against the skin of Pete’s hip. 

“Yes,” Pete sobbed. Every part of him ached with acute, overpowering desire. “Yes, of course, yes, God, please, _yes_.”

Chasten pressed a kiss to Pete’s neck as he pushed inside. Pete wasn’t sure the sound that tumbled off his lips was even human. The feeling was overwhelming, all-consuming of his senses. There was a faint and fading pain, but there was so much buzzing, glittering pleasure that the pain seemed somehow irrelevant. 

Chasten moved slowly, luxuriously, against him and inside him and God, how did he ever live without this? How did he ever go through his life without soft lips worrying that piece of skin below his right ear, without a confident hand cradling his hip, without a man _inside_ him, setting him on fire?

Every movement of Chasten’s hips wrung an involuntary sound from Pete. Slowly, but ever more urgently, he became aware that he needed to come more than he had ever needed anything in his life. 

“I need,” he ground out, and thankfully Chasten didn’t make him say it this time. 

A steady hand found his cock and it was the work of seconds making him gasp and shake and come on the towel (when did that get there?) next to him. The hand returned to his hip and Chasten thrust once, twice, three times more before stilling, deep inside Pete, and sighing against his neck. 

Pete was vaguely aware of Chasten pulling out and getting rid of a condom. By the time he was being cleaned up with a warm washcloth he was mostly asleep. 

He woke up half an hour before his ridiculously early alarm was set to go off. In the dark he breathed, listened to Chasten’s deep sleeping breaths, felt a faint ache in his backside. He had no idea why this had happened, why his body had simply, finally, ceded control. Was it the election? Was it the approval of the ballot box that made him ache for Chasten’s touch? Was it the fact that Chasten had proved his worth, playing the candidate’s spouse to fucking _perfection_ that night? Why now? Why did he suddenly work right _now_?

His dark musings were interrupted by his ridiculous alarm. Chasten barely stirred as Pete got out of bed. When he got home Chasten was still sleeping, so he undressed and slipped back in beside him. 

Chasten hummed lazily when he pulled Pete close and recoiled, awake in a flash and with a yelp, when he realized Pete was cold. 

“Where have you been?” he asked dazedly.

“The morning shows,” Pete whispered back. “It’s early, go back to sleep.”

As Chasten’s breath evened out against his neck, his arm limp over Pete’s stomach, Pete closed his eyes. There was a warm, sleepy press of Chasten’s body against every inch of his own back, and for the first time it didn’t feel like an implicit demand, making him feel preemptively inadequate. He fell asleep feeling completely loved.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the characters in Longest Way Round veer further and further (and further) away from the ones we believe to be authentic, and the plot grows more and more byzantine, it has been such an extraordinary gift to have someone who always understands these people and their bizarre journey better than I do. If I may adapt some Joyce for the occasion: "I love you, Pocket, and it seems that this too is part of my love. Forgive me! forgive me!" - C.

As he hung up his keys and coat, he felt electric blue eyes on his back. He smiled at the wall. Even if their partnership - such as it was, whatever it was - ended tomorrow, he’d been a small part of a big thing, a historic thing. And for the first time in his life, his real interests, his real talents, his real self, had been more than tolerated; they’d been adored. Resisting the temptation to throw this man into the nearest bed, choosing to build a professional partnership with him first, had been the best decision he’d ever made.

He turned around to see Pete extending a hand toward him. He accepted it, grinned with gratitude, and sat down beside him.

“Thank you,” Pete said, his innocent earnestness touching an exposed nerve in Chasten’s heart. “For tonight.”

He sounded positively worshipful, like a breathless virgin who’d just been ravished by an Adonis. The idea that standing around folding tables, drinking cheap beer, and shaking strangers’ hands was in any way comparable to sex made him want to laugh. “Oh, that was nothing,” he said, honestly, smilingly, waving a dismissive hand - but the tips of his ears burned at the flattery anyway.

Chasten wasn’t sure if it was due to being (a little) drunk on alcohol or (very) drunk on winning, but Pete kept rambling on, effusive. “No, it wasn’t,” he said, sitting up straighter, sounding as if he wanted to argue about this, as if he’d take great joy in arguing about this. “You were perfect tonight. I was just trying to keep up with you. Everyone was charmed by you, kept asking about you.” He repeated himself: “You were perfect tonight.”

And that was when Chasten realized, suddenly, that _politics is this man’s sex_. He’d understood the general idea, of course - heard countless times the metaphor of the city being a jealous bride - but he’d never seen the equivalence in such stark terms before. Politics brought to Pete what sex brought to everyone else. Politics was the thing that made him happy; it was the way that he seized power and the way that he wielded control; it gave him a sense of identity; it made him feel alive.

Making a life in politics was the most fulfilling way he’d ever found of being loved, and of loving in return.

Chasten swallowed, quickly emotional in a way he didn’t understand. If politics was Pete’s version of sex, he couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of the honor that had been bestowed upon him: being trusted so completely, so quickly. His memory drifted back to his own past. All of those years, all of those men: the shaping himself in the image of what he assumed they wanted until the inevitable breakdown and breakup... But with Pete he’d just been himself, and - and maybe who he was, was enough.

“Thank you, Peter,” he said, desperately trying not to give away the depth of his thoughts or emotions, or how those thoughts and emotions were making his stomach muscles turn over and ache. He heard a little shake in his voice that he hadn’t intended to be there, and for a split second he was embarrassed by it, but he and Pete were gazing at each other as he spoke, and he could see that the shake affected Pete somehow, because his expression grew soft, and he smiled, and the corners of his radiant eyes crinkled with a strange, sad wonder.

Out of nowhere, Pete leaned forward. If Chasten hadn’t known better, he would have assumed he was going in for a kiss. But of course in the end there was no kiss. Instead his chin came to rest on his shoulder, and that was all: the purest expression of platonic affection possible. So why did he feel like this single sweet embrace was more intimate than any fuck he’d ever had?

He swallowed again. He wasn’t sure how he knew exactly, but electricity was starting to crackle, and that realization caught him mid-breath. Pete’s nose turned toward his neck, his lost fingers curling instinctively into shirt sleeves fabric. His breath was hot even as it induced a cold shiver.

Chasten blinked a few times and shifted positions, exasperated with his body for interpreting such an asexual gesture in such a sexual way. We have time, he told his lower self. If this crazy whirlwind kept spinning, there would be more time. But first: partnership and planning and sweet innocent kisses and abstinence and -

“Take me to bed,” Pete whispered against his neck, and Chasten froze.

He flipped through the pages of the script that his responsible self was supposed to perform. _Peter, no; you’re drunk_. (He remembered with regret the man who should have told him this.) _Peter, no; we’ve only just met; we need more time._ (He remembered with regret the man who should have told him this.) _Peter, no; I’m a monster; I’m not good enough for you, and I never will be._ (He remembered with regret the man who should have told him this.)

The script was clear. He needed to say “Peter, no.”

He kept waiting to hear himself say “Peter, no.”

As the seconds ticked past, he became hyper-aware of the sharp fragrance of their colognes twisting together - a pleasant, scented dissonance. Finally he found the strength to move, to turn his face just barely. He needed comfort for himself; he needed to speak his sad words into soft skin, into the crook of a sympathetic neck. But he never reached his destination. Instead, he wobbled, imbalanced, and let out a shaky breath just below Pete’s ear, and then that shaky breath hovered, turning into a barely-there kiss.

He started a little at Pete’s response. It was a quick gasp that had a tiny shocked delighted terrified vocalization at the end of it. Pete was no more. Pete had vanished. Peter was the only real one now.

“Peter, no,” Chasten said, except it came out as: “Are you sure?”

_What are you doing oh what are you doing what are you fucking doing slow down slow the fuck down oh God don’t hurt him don’t hurt him don’t spoil this for him you don’t deserve him oh don’t hurt him_. His internal monologue had lost all punctuation. Slowly it just became white noise, a distressed hum. He was afraid his body was going to take over, as it always did, with inevitably disastrous results. To protect them both from his own lust, panicked thoughts began suggesting desperate last-minute on-the-fly advice - _smile; if you don’t know what you’re doing, at least pretend you do; make him feel safe; make him feel loved; draw your fingers through his hair_ \- and he did, slowly, savoring every last soft strand. _Do everything you wish had been done for you._

It took so long for Peter to answer that Chasten began to wonder if he’d imagined asking the question. But then came the reply, in a tone bearing a strange dazed shaky confidence: “I’m sure.”

Chasten didn’t know if the jolt of electricity that followed was divine or dangerous. Maybe both.

They sat there.

They both trembled, just slightly.

Finally Chasten realized that he would have to be the one to move first. _Go slow._ He rose to his feet. He tugged gently on Peter’s hand, willing the gesture to be encouraging. His brow twitched into a furrow at Peter’s blank gaze; he looked so lost in the moment that his thoughts seemed to have vanished entirely. Chasten started imagining what he could do to lure those thoughts out, to get him to react, to get him to spill his body’s secrets, and he felt a sudden trickle of saliva under his tongue, as if he was about to eat a dish. He looked away, humiliated. “Upstairs, then, I guess,” he said, voice hoarse, but he could tell that Peter couldn’t hear him.

_Go slow._

He agonized over whether to lead the way gallantly up the stairs or just to gently encourage Peter up first. In the end he did neither, choosing instead to wait. Peter brushed his free hand distractedly against the newel post and went up, as if by hypnotized rote. At first he took the steps with a jog as he always did, but then, once he hit that first creak, he slowed, maybe in the back of his hazy disconnected mind remembering what he was jogging toward. Chasten hurried to follow close behind, hand inexplicably hovering over Peter’s hip, as if by doing so he might protect him from falling backward.

Outside the door Peter hesitated, as if suddenly magnetized away. Chasten brushed fingertips up and down along Peter’s shirt back, an attempt at reassurance. Peter had frozen, so Chasten leaned around him and gently turned the doorknob. He gave a little push against the door, and it opened. But before crossing the threshold he glanced over at Peter’s face. His expression was dazed but resolved, his handsome jaw set.

Chasten knew the scent of the master bedroom, but it was not yet homey; it was not yet his. Everything around him smelled of Peter: of his clothes, of his books, of _him_ , and him alone. He hoped that the familiar scent and place would be a comfort. In fact, he hoped the whole encounter would be a comfort. His throat ached with worry that it wouldn’t, that it couldn’t be.

They stood there next to the bed.

_Fuck_ , the lust. He was close to choking on it.

He had free rein now. But those reins were tangled, and how best to unravel them…? Peter’s eyes had closed. Yet again Chasten could see that he wasn’t entirely present. A responsible partner would have stopped the proceedings. But Chasten realized, with regret, that he was not a responsible partner.

So he stepped forward, closing the space between them and undoing Peter’s shirt buttons. He tried to do it slowly, sensually, but his fingers and forearms had tiny minds of their own, and every one of them were counseling speed. To try to make up for his selfishness, he returned his nose to Peter’s neck. He felt him tilt his chin down infinitesimally; in response, Chasten drifted lips upward. Kissing the tiny delicate rise of skin again elicited a strangled-sounding _oh_. He marveled at what a strange thing the human body was - half an inch in either direction and Peter didn’t react at all, but that one spot, that one cluster of nerves…

Chasten finished with the buttons and gently helped him off with his shirt, taking time, slowing around his elbows, hoping the fabric would drag past all the short sensitive hairs in a way that Chasten’s hands alone couldn’t. In response, Pete started clutching Chasten’s arms again. He felt like his circulation was being cut off. But he didn’t mind the pressure; he didn’t mind the pain. It was all just a reminder of what was at stake, the pit of responsibility he’d somehow tripped into.

He decided to leave his own shirt on - to give Peter something to grab hold of, if necessary, and for warmth (why on earth did this man keep his bedroom so cold?). But most importantly, he knew he needed to protect him, and he reasoned he couldn’t hurt Peter too badly if he stayed dressed.

When Chasten finally opened his mouth against his neck, tasting the scent of his cologne in his lungs, Peter started wavering on his feet, knees trembling like a teenager’s. Chasten smiled at that. If they’d been doing this for the tenth or fiftieth or thousandth time, he knew they’d be talking, sniping, bantering. A quip suitable for another night came to mind: _if the governor would only be a little more hypocritical, this would be a foolproof way to make you fall in line with his agenda..._ But - no jokes now. No jokes now. He absorbed the weight staggering against him, then laughed at the absurdity that he of all people - the broke and broken grad school student with the eviscerated heart - apparently had a hidden talent for making mayors with degrees from Harvard and Oxford collapse into his arms.

For no particular reason, Chasten felt he could restrain himself more effectively if he sat behind Peter: if they were in a position where it would be more comfortable for Peter to be kissed than to kiss. Chasten was terrified of the idea of being face-to-face with those goddamn eyes and the fine thin pencil-stroke lashes above them. He knew that whatever he decided to do would be what would ultimately happen between them; Peter was in no state to make choices at the moment, and that was alright; it was all alright. In fact, it felt like a certain kind of sacred privilege, a chance to whisper thank you to his history. Because he remembered the heat and the forgiveness and the delicious confusion of those lazy furtive nights in Berlin. There was a time for everything.

Every item of clothing he was wearing felt like one too many. But he did his best to shove that thought back into his subconscious. Because nothing tonight was his. Everything was Peter’s. And he understood clearly how his own worthiness was on the line.

Peter’s shoulders radiated heat in the darkness, smelling of new soap and fresh-scrubbed skin. He hesitated at that, overwhelmed. It wasn’t like he’d never had a shirtless man at his disposal before, but… Tonight was different. This man was different. _They_ were different.

For a reason he didn’t understand, he felt drawn to take a single finger and run it down the entire length of Peter’s bare spine, lightly tracing along every hard little bone, laid out in a line like diamonds strung on a necklace. When his finger reached the sheets, and the ripples of Peter’s shudders had passed, he went back to kissing the neck again, first one side, then the other, noticing every beautiful tiny place on the skin where the symmetry was broken. The kisses, and the sheen exposed to air after each, induced shivers traded between shoulder blades. At one point Peter’s breath reacted as if he’d had a knife slipped between his ribs. He pushed back an elbow into Chasten’s; muttered something incoherent, a cross between a plea and an apology. Chasten closed his eyes and smiled. He didn’t mind, and he gave another kiss to prove it.

He took a moment then to let Peter settle, to let the little whimpers in his throat calm down like bubbling water coming off a boil. Instead of kissing, he leaned forward to take a breath of the hair above the nape of his neck: dark and fragrant and just barely damp at the roots from sweat.

He let a few minutes pass.

He noticed they were both breathing in the same tempo now.

Imperceptibly slowly, he rounded Peter’s skull and returned to the spot below the right ear, challenging himself to make the pleasure new each time he returned. He opened his lips just barely, drawing a dual line with his teeth and his tongue, as gently and as gingerly as he knew how. At the unexpected contact Peter gave a jolt - and shock at his yelp made Chasten’s teeth close down on the skin in surprise. His pulse raced away; he became terrified suddenly that he’d marked this man, ruined him somehow. So to check, he traced the round outline of Peter’s left ear with his fingertip. And Peter played right into his hands, whimpering into the touch with gratitude, arching his neck at just the right angle that Chasten needed him to to see. Relief flooded his bloodstream: it was just a tiny bite. It would be gone by morning. All, in the end, would be well.

“You know,” he whispered, “there’s more to the human body than just the neck,” but the joke didn’t get a laugh, only whimpers. He felt as if he were talking to himself. Maybe he was. “Oh, Peter,” he finally said. He blinked back tears he didn’t understand, from emotions he didn’t understand. “You’re safe now.” He realized something, overwhelmed: “And I haven’t even started with you yet.”

He was a little afraid of the intensity of these reactions - he had done so little so far, and Peter already seemed positively queasy with sensation - but, trapped in his clothes and absent an outlet, he found he could only think of the temptation of escalation. He rested his chin on Peter’s shoulder and trailed hands down his bare sides, angling his wrists so the smooth buttons of his shirt cuffs sailed down the skin before his cold fingers followed. He bit his own tongue, tasted the salt of Peter’s skin on it. He knew he shouldn’t be pushing boundaries like this. Past a certain point he was afraid he wouldn’t have the self-control to stop. How had he not seen his own selfishness coming? In an attempt to suppress his guilt, he drew his fingertips back and over Peter’s chest, tracing tender aimless circles, praying they brought him pleasure.

Out of nowhere, Peter’s voice trembled to life. “I need - ” and he stopped.

Chasten’s breath was growing ragged. He whispered in his ear. Tried to tamp down his desire, tried to be smooth, like caramel, a sweet tease. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded. “What do you need, Peter?” he breathed. After a pause: “Tell me.”

“Take me.”

Tell me. Take me.

Adrenaline pounded to the ends of his fingertips. He stopped moving his hands. “Are you sure?” he finally asked, and his voice was very quiet.

“No,” came the gasp, “but do it anyway.”

The very breath was choked out of him at that. Reluctantly, he dragged his fingers off Peter’s chest and swung his legs out of bed and stood up. Peter’s hot flushed face turned to look at him as he did. He was dazed, overwrought, blissed - and Chasten saw a feral hunger in his eyes. He realized with a chill what was about to happen.

In the bathroom, before he grabbed what he needed, he splashed water on his face, shocked. He hadn’t realized how many tears had been seeping out from behind his eyelashes.

When he came back to the bedroom he saw Peter lying there, staring vacantly at the ceiling, looking for all the world as if he was just about to take a nap. The only sign of nerves was a barely-there tremble in the hand resting at his side.

Chasten started working the buttons at his own throat, fingers flying down his shirt front. Once he realized how fast he was going, he slowed. He reminded himself that he should only do this if he could grant Peter ample opportunity to escape, to turn back, to say no. Tonight had to be an exercise in restraint. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise. And he wanted so badly to be fair.

The room was so silent that everything quiet was suddenly impossibly loud.

The rustle of his shirt.

The slow pull of his zipper.

(If someone had told him that his heartbeat was audible, he would have believed them.)

He never folded his clothes before sex. He folded his clothes before sex.

Peter said nothing, laid still, just waited. Chasten glanced nonchalantly at the hand again. It was still trembling.

_Do everything you always wish had been done for you…_

He was about to ask again if he was sure, but as he slipped into bed, Peter opened his eyes and looked up at him. The expression in them bestowed a terrified blessing.

Despite that blessing, and despite his own pulse-pounding ache, Chasten reminded himself to stretch this out, to give Peter every possible chance to change his mind. He moved with slow and careful motions to unfasten Peter’s belt, trying to forget how many dreams he’d had over the past few weeks of doing exactly this. He helped Peter’s shaky hands to finish undressing. Wide eyes blinked up at him, trying (and failing) to be surreptitious as they traced the outline of his skin, prickled now by goosebumps.

As soon as he was free, Peter began whimpering helplessly again, squirming just from being bare and watched, surrounded by the sensations of cool air and sheets against skin. He flushed and turned his head, as if to bury it in his pillow in humiliation. Chasten watched him for a long while. Finally he leaned over his body, took off his glasses, and set them on the bedside table. Without looking at him he reached down and brushed a reassuring hand across the side of his face, and at that, he felt the body underneath him relax, just a little. Peter lifted his cheek from the pillow and gazed up at him. Chasten raised his eyebrows, questioningly. Peter gave a slow nod and let out a long shuddering breath.

He would give Peter a hundred kisses. Give him time to decide.

The first dozen were for the collarbone, the next two dozen for the chest. As he kissed, trying his level best not to lose count, he took note of how the subtle curves, the tiny dips above and between the ribs, reacted: which spots elicited a hiss, or a half-cry, or a throttled intake of breath that triggered the upward arch of a spine.

Another dozen kisses for the stomach. Below the ribs there was more give to the warmth of his body. The involuntary arches came more frequently here, especially the further down he trailed. Attention paid to one spot, just off-center and above the vanished belt’s skin-pink imprint, made Peter’s hands fly up into Chasten’s hair; those same hands gently but desperately, so shakily, pulled Chasten’s face into his stomach until the tip of his nose was flattened out against the softness. Through it Chasten felt the vibration of a moan choked into a cry.

Peter needed more time.

Chasten felt winded. This work was painstaking, and the weight of responsibility was crushing. With a heavy breath he gently pulled Peter’s wrists away from his head, closing his eyes appreciatively at the feeling of fingers dragging through his hair. He laid Peter’s hands beside his body on the sheets, then gently flipped each one over so the palms were facing up. He kissed them lightly there, face brushing the outside of Peter’s hip every time he did. He could practically see the electricity buzzing up the nerves of Peter’s arm; below him, he felt hips moving in tiny searching circles, helpless.

The fiftieth kiss was on the thigh, and the fifty-first, and so on, back and forth. He kept symmetry by drawing light patterns with his fingertips on whatever side his face wasn’t attending to. Down to the knees. He lifted up the left one, kissing its bony side and drawing two fingers along the sweat-damp skin underneath. Peter’s shiver burst into a single involuntary thrust, and he began to make sounds as if he was sobbing without tears. Chasten watched soberly, then gently pushed the knee back down into the sheets. Strangely, he felt tears on his own face.

He held Peter’s heel in his two hands, kissed the ankle barely once, did the same to the other foot, and then reversed course back up.

He began to whisper against his skin. He wasn’t sure if he was being heard. He didn’t care if he wasn’t. The kisses were whispering more eloquently than he could ever speak, anyway.

“Peter, I think you’re brilliant and witty and charming and the cutest boy I’ve ever met - ”

No reaction besides the whimpers. He wasn’t hearing a single word.

“And I know what it means for you to let me into this campaign, into your life, and - ”

He swallowed back another attack of tears. Kissed his hip, about to bless it.

“I need you to know, I’ll never take this for granted, Peter. You have to believe I’ll never take this for granted.”

A moan. He started whispering into his inner thigh, voice trembling with just a hint of despair.

“Someday you’ll realize what a mistake I was. But I promise to be the best mistake you ever made.”

Ninety-eight, ninety-nine. There was one kiss left, and after it, there would be no going back. He hesitated for a long time. But, he realized, Peter wasn’t leaving.

Peter’s body fought back with all the feral hunger that his eyes had threatened. Chasten’s cool fingertips pressed on the soft burning contours of skin, attempting to hold him in place. His own lungs seemed to collapse; he was operating light-headed. There was no going back. He’d strung Peter out miles further from where he’d ever been before, and it would be unspeakably cruel to abandon him now. Neither of them really had a choice anymore. In case Peter could somehow understand this - although at this point it seemed doubtful - Chasten whispered in his ear. “Your body knows what it’s doing. Just let it. Just let it, Peter.”

In response, his obedient legs shakily pushed open, cool air eliciting a fresh series of moans, in new pitches now. Chasten rolled backward halfway, reaching behind him to the nightstand. For the first time he noticed the juxtaposition of sonnets and sex supplies, and he had to bite back a helpless laugh. Over the years he’d made this same roll and reach so many times, in so many beds, behind to so many bedside tables, cluttered with all manner of detritus, from pill bottles to alarm clocks to empty beer cans. But he’d never picked up a condom and lube from beside a dog-eared book of poetry before. _Peter is different Peter is different Peter is different_ , and the breathless repetition of the thought thrilled and terrified him in equal measure.

He prepared himself, shaky in his new slickness, feeling like a priest undertaking a preparation for some kind of sacrament - but as soon as that comparison came to mind, he flushed a deep scarlet, and pretended to forget he’d ever thought of it.

He leaned over. Reached down. “Darling” was the first calming term of endearment he thought of before he made contact. At first he only touched - as innocent an exploration as possible, given where his fingers were - but that quasi-innocence soon faded, dissolved by the buck of a hip and a gutteral sob, a wordless plea for something, anything more. So he slowly shifted to pressing, then outright pushing. He wanted so badly to be calm. He was not calm. He was terrified. And he was terrified that his terror might be transferred, like some kind of disease, through his fingertips. But the die was cast; he’d gone too far; he had to keep going.

So with a certainty that he feared bordered on cruel, he twisted and curved one finger, then another one, and although he whispered “darling” again, the word was completely lost to the sounds he heard in response, and those sounds seared his heart.

Peter had devolved into a stiff shaking wet-with-sweat mess: raw, overheated, undone. Chasten laid beside him, tried to distract him, comfort him, tracing a hand back and forth along his hip, trying desperately to ground him, trying to convince himself that he hadn’t pushed things too far. But Peter clearly needed something more, while simultaneously having no capacity, no frame of reference, to completely understand what that something was.

Chasten’s vision was starting to swim. “Do you trust me?” he asked, checking one last time, terrified to hear the answer. He had to give him one last chance to escape - even as he knew he was in no condition to escape.

The reply came in a shaky torrent. “Yes, of course, yes, God, please, yes.”

He’d somehow retained control all the way up until that moment, but hearing those words made him feel as if he was being born into something new and all-consuming, and at the privilege, he himself short-circuited out. He started moving slowly, then faster on sheer selfish animal instinct. He began hoping against hope that he wasn’t about to hurt his Peter. He was too overwhelmed to think much of the fact that he’d just thought the phrase _my Peter._

It was impossible to wait any longer; he was going to die if he did. In the blur, he made sure to kiss Peter’s neck so that he might feel the set of sensations together, that he might feel less afraid. The heat sparked a reaction. “I need,” Peter said, trying to speak but croaking instead, sounding for all the world as if his ribs and lungs and throat had just been turned to iron. Chasten’s heart, mind, soul all spun at the strength of the forces he’d just unleashed.

Through the compression of fiery desperation burning through his torso - the involuntary, unpredictable clenches of back and abdomen - the heavy ache between his legs - the pounding in the blood between his temples - Chasten somehow retained the presence of mind to recognize he owed Peter one thing, at the very least. So he leaned forward over a sweaty shoulder and stretched out a hand to draw a finger down Peter’s warmth, then to work that warmth. He felt relief that, given the sounds he’d been hearing over the past few minutes, it wouldn’t take much effort on his part to put this man out of his blind misery.

As soon as he did, as soon as he noticed Peter collapsing into himself, he retreated back into his fast-breathed selfishness, pushing up against Peter’s back and into him, wanting every new second to get close enough, failing, then trying desperately again. His hand returned to Peter’s hip, not to comfort this time, but to use him for leverage.

Don’t use him, a fretting, disgusted, disconnected part of him scolded. Only monsters use bodies like that.

Then I’m a monster, he argued back archly, and in the next thrust, he came.

* * *

For a long time after, they just lay there. They panted. Melded together. Side-by-side, miles apart. And even after it was all over, Peter kept moaning.

Once he could see again, Chasten pulled out, pulled away. He slowly turned his head toward his breathless closed-eyed companion. He was too exhausted to ask if he was hurt, let alone to deal with the fallout of the answer. Frankly Peter didn’t look capable of speech yet, anyway. So he stiffly rolled over, somehow shakily threw on his dress shirt, and returned to the bathroom.

When he looked at himself in the mirror, he looked as pale as the sun.

He came back with a set of damp washcloths. Peter’s moans had turned to whimpers now, their urgency fading, finally. His eyes half-opened when he felt Chasten sitting down beside him. “Do you want to or have me - ?” Chasten whispered, aware that the words were out of order, yet not quite sure how to reassemble them. Peter nodded and didn’t qualify. They cleaned up together, saying nothing, and Chasten couldn’t discern if the silence was from exhaustion or embarrassment or some sticky mix of the two.

With the final clean cloth, Chasten swept its cool warmth across Peter’s face and forehead, willing the fever of sex away, taking special care over his closed eyes, so the salt of tears wouldn’t stick to the lashes overnight. He didn’t want him to wake up that morning feeling somehow weak. Unexpectedly, as he did, Peter reached for his wrist and pulled it toward his lips, giving it a kiss. The tiny unexpected gesture quietly broke his heart.

Finally Chasten collapsed back into bed. The ringing in his ears was starting to subside. He could imagine a day when he might be able to use words again.

He was about to look over at Peter, to wish him some kind of good night or good morning, when Peter rolled over sleepily into his arms.

“We won,” Peter murmured, eyes closed, half-dreaming.

Chasten kissed him on the forehead. “We did,” he whispered, but that whisper was hoarse.

He laid there for a sleepless hour. He questioned why it felt like he’d won a mayorship, and why he liked the feeling, and what exactly that might mean. He contemplated the dizzy bubbly rush of being at the center of a successful campaign. He acknowledged to himself how comfortable he felt joking with strangers over folding card tables and cheap beer bottles, asking for and retaining every useful detail about them, starring as Peter’s living breathing joking Rolodex. He re-lived how, exactly, he’d been invited upstairs and into this bedroom. He recalled every electric moment of exertion, every word, every breath, every touch exchanged. He worried, a bit, at the intensity of Peter’s responses to him. He marveled, a lot, at the intensity of Peter’s responses to him. He savored the simple joy of a man’s sleeping breath on his collarbone, and a warm bare arm limp across his chest…

He realized suddenly: not only was he in love, he was in love with the last man he’d ever need to fall in love with.

This man would be the project of his life.

Every instinct cautioned no, but every tremble of his heart screamed yes. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that was why he’d been so scared, because this mattered. And in the end, as desperately wrung-out as he was, as beyond terrified as he felt… When his eyes closed for the last time that morning, he knew that he was smiling, desperately.


End file.
